us or the hatchet
by TheVerbalThing ComesAndGoes
Summary: It would be so much easier if she could just... hate him. It would definitely make sense, and she's certain that no one would blame her. Turmoil and bedlam have invaded her life since the moment they met, all roots traceable back to him. But she knows that if she hated him - really, truly hated him - she wouldn't be here. House, Cuddy and a bevy of history. AU.


(which to bury) us or the hatchet?

Summary: It - _this_, them, everything - would be so much easier if she could just... hate him. It would definitely make more sense, and she's certain no one would blame her. Turmoil and bedlam have invaded her life since the moment they met, all roots easily traceable back to him. House/Cuddy, AU.

Setting: circa season 1

Disclaimer: story title belongs to Relient K

**A/N**: _The Precipice_ has not been abandoned. I've just really wanted to write this for a while and have been trying to figure out how to make it work. read, review, enjoy. :)

* * *

><p>"And in the end, the love you take<p>

is equal to the love you make_._"

- The End; The Beatles

_duet of dysfunction_

It's selfish, what she's doing.

Coming to him at night, letting out her frustrations by using him through one of the few aspects of their relationship that was (_is_) actually successful. It's selfish; _she_ is selfish. She knows this and she is more than certain that he does too. (He's certainly commented on the negative trait, regardless whether or not he believes her to be in possession of it, more times than she can count.) But, even so, his narcissism borders pure hedonism and she also knows that he enjoys getting what he wants more than anything. She just doesn't know how he could want _this_ - disconnection and separation; the two of them together and yet still so, so far apart - when they are so far from where they started that she can sometimes barely recognize herself.

She should hate that it feels so easy (too easy) to fall back into this, that it's almost as if their bodies don't recognize the passage of time and just know the way they fit together. She should hate this - there's a list somewhere that she and Julia compiled in the midst of drinking a bottle of wine - of all the reasons why she should.

It - _this_, them, everything - would be so much easier if she could just... hate him. It would definitely make more sense, and she's certain no one would blame her. Turmoil and bedlam have invaded her life since the moment they met, all roots easily traceable back to him.

(But if that were the case, if she hated him - really, truly hated him - then she wouldn't be here. Besides, she knows herself and she is almost wholly convinced that hating him, relieving herself of _this _and_ them _isn't at all possible.)

_This_ - her sighing his name as though it's the only word she's ever wanted to say; and him memorizing and exploring the curves and contours of her body with his hands and his lips as if it's the last time he will ever get to do so - isn't what she came here for.

Though what, exactly, she was hoping to have accomplished tonight is entirely unclear at the moment.

Somewhere in between his pants hitting the floor and her shirt being tugged roughly over her head, she thinks she hears him ask if she wants him to stop. Because they both know she didn't come here for this. (She can't _afford_ to be here for this.) She ignores the question, bypasses his sudden and unexpected hesitation, and he doesn't ask her again.

Her back hits the mattress with a solid yet soft thud, bed springs creaking only slight beneath her weight.

She reminds herself again even as she finds herself kissing him back, her body arching upwards to meet his touch, that she shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be here if she couldn't even control herself. She should hate that it feels so easy (_too easy_) to fall back into this without any hesitation or forethought of the consequences or the fallout.

"I..." she sighs as he nips at a sensitive spot on her neck, his stubble and scruff scraping across her collarbone, leaving her nerve endings on fire. "I didn't come here for this." The words come out as more of a moan than an admonishment, lessening the sting of a truth she'd rather not admit - but one that remains true all the same.

"I know."

Why did she come here again?

A shift of her hips and the sensation of him, inside her, is a sharp, welcome, and satisfying reminder. This part has always been easier than it should be. "_Oh._"

It's all too easy to fall into bed together now: during the moments when they let themselves forget who they are now and only focus on remembering the people they used to be. But, as she's reminded as the vague sound of her phone buzzing on the nightstand reaches her ears, reminding her of her responsibilities, of a world that exists outside of his bedroom and beyond these walls, they can't exactly do that anymore.

Just as she did the week before, she insists that after tonight, they won't be doing this again. Doing _this_ - she stifles a moan by burrowing her face in his neck, teeth nipping at his throbbing carotid - only confuses things and blurs the lines, making it more and more difficult for her to stick with her decision and remain firm about where they stand. She wonders if that's why House has been so...amenable to this; keeping her confused will only make it easier for her to change her mind about them. She wouldn't be surprised.

Cuddy rests her forehead against his sternum, trying to catch her breath. Her legs are still wrapped around his waist, the fingers of her left hand still threaded through his. She looks down when she feels his thumb against her ring finger, taking note of the tan line that resides there, in retaliation of his. On his nightstand, her phone buzzes again. She sighs, still frazzled, and pulls away, untangling her limbs from his.

She throws her legs over the side of the bed, but his hand on the small of her naked back stops her before her feet can even hit the floor. She's fighting against her old instincts to roll over and curl into him, in spite of the fact that this room, this place, is both so familiar and so foreign; it's just his place, though - not theirs.

She waits, sitting on the edge, her fingers toying with the rumpled sheets. She wants to leave but, at the same time, she wants to stay; Cuddy feels him pulling her in even as he pushes he away, indecision seemingly contagious. She looks at him over her bare shoulder. House meets her gaze and it's intensifying enough that her breathing quickens and she swears he is looking through her.

She stands and his hand slides from her back. It's easy - she's had plenty of practice - to not let it show that the loss of him or his touch has affected her.

He says nothing. Whether or not he watches her leave, she doesn't know.

She doesn't look back when she walks out the door.


End file.
